


video killed the radio star

by arbitrarily



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: (Or at Least Violence), Bad Guys Think They Made Them Do It But Really Just Enabled Them, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Exhibitionism, Partners in Crime, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/pseuds/arbitrarily
Summary: Turns out New Media thinks the concept of public shaming is an effective strategic offense. Too bad she's dealing with Laura Moon and Mad Sweeney.





	video killed the radio star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsoncovered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsoncovered/gifts).



> This is set immediately after 2x05. Your choice of the tag "Bad Guys Think They Made Them Do It But Really Just Enabled Them" was too fun not to play around with, especially after the events of that episode!

 

Of the two of them, Laura had thought she was the one meant to have more luck.

If so, that doesn’t explain the last hour, a collection of mishaps that includes poorly thought-out hitch-hiking followed near immediately by ambush and abduction, and now _this_. In front of her in one of arguably the saddest motel rooms in America (which is really saying something) is Mad Sweeney, as roughed up as he ever is and bound to a chair that looks ready to start protesting his weight. He’s surrounded by two of the same-looking goons that had held Shadow on that train. She has a third goon at her elbow. Sweeney groans when he sees her.

“I knew you’d miss me, but there's gotta be a better way,” he drawls. His voice is muffled and nasally from whatever it is they did to his nose that left it that bloody.

“I’m as pleased to fucking see you as you are me. Believe me,” she says. 

Before she can say more, obnoxious EDM music starts up from the very much so blank television screen. The TV looks older than Laura is, and pixel by pixel, a girl emerges from the screen. Laura watches in the muted kind of horror and disinterest that has accompanied her after-death non-life and all the utterly weird shit that Shadow has managed to get himself mixed up in. Because she has no doubts, no illusions. Anything worth anything always comes back to Shadow. 

“Gross,” the girls says, eyeing the TV she just came out of. She cuts her eyes to Sweeney. “Old things bum me out.” All he does is snort.

“New Media, I presume?” he says. 

“‘sup?”

Turns out she’s bored—or, that might just be her default setting. Laura can appreciate that. It’s more than that, this girl, New Media, quickly makes clear. It’s easy to sow division among your enemies when you can make anything and everything go viral. When you can make sure the right bad information gets in front of the right wrong person. She puts her hands on her hips and she cocks her head, pixels following hurriedly in her wake. “Revenge porn is fun, but public shame is even better.” The TV screen behind her lights up in a random montage of what looks like incredibly amateur porn and nudes.

“I literally do not know what the fuck any of that means,” Sweeney says. Laura thinks she does. Something that feels a lot like dread sinks inside of her. 

“You expect me to fuck him, is that it? And then what? You’ll distribute it on the internet? You'll shame me?” she mocks.

“Uh, well, like, _yeah_.” Little emojis collect around her, all the shocked faces and the red angry faces and a few of those ones where it looks like the emoji head went all detonated atomic bomb. “Or, just the one audience in particular.” Laura arches an eyebrow.

Sweeney starts to laugh. “Her man already knows there’s not a blessed thing his dead wife can do to keep her legs closed.”

Laura deliberately does not look at him.

More cascading emojis surround New Media, as well as a sound effect that reminds Laura a lot of the slot machines from the casino.

“Yeah,” New Media drawls, but then something goes off about her. Something frightening and wrong Laura doesn’t know how to articulate. It’s like she’s looking into an abyss. The grip at Laura’s arm tightens and the men with the guns edge that much closer to Sweeney. “He doesn’t know they open for you though, does he?”

Laura finally meets Sweeney’s eye and she's not entirely sure what to call what she sees. His mouth is pursed but his eyes are bright, with acceptance or resignation, she thinks, but also something more. She wants to call it hunger. He’s fucking pathetic. 

But, he’s also not entirely alone.

The memory of that stupid bizarre clusterfuck of a night has been crowding her head since she left him back at the Coq Noir. The more she had thought about it, the less real it had felt, even if her body disagreed. The body handles denial very differently than the mind. She knows that now. And it's that part of her—the part she knew best when alive—that is saying now, “Why the fuck not?”

The shift in decision must show on her face, at least to him. He sucks in a quick breath and his mouth crinkles up into a shit-eating grin. 

New Media laughs, as bright and cheerful as she was when she first materialized. “Let’s get to work!”

So, yeah? Why the fuck not?

 

 

 

She straddles Sweeney’s lap. He huffs out a breath at the force of her body settling against his. “You’re gonna do what I tell you when I tell you,” she hisses as quietly as she can in his ear as she molds her body to his. She can feel his laugh, soft and barely audible, against her neck.

“When don’t I?” he says, just as quietly. Laura ignores him. She presses her mouth at his ear again, makes a big show of it. She traces the rim of it with her tongue and she feels him twitch under her. 

"When I say go, you throw me," she drags her mouth lower, catches his ear lobe against her teeth and he hisses. "The one behind me, when I say so."

Sweeney turns his head towards her, his mouth way too close to hers. Temptingly close. "This your idea of foreplay, Dead Wife?"

"Fuck you."

"That is the plan."

She pushes his face away from hers. She reaches back behind him to where his hands are restrained and she breaks the cuffs bound around his wrists. He flexes his hands and his arms immediately.

“Uh, hey! WTF!”

Laura thinks fast. “If I’m going to fuck him I want his hands on me.” Laura doesn’t look at New Media when she says it, and Sweeney’s face is an open book. Hungry, idiotic. Obedient, but mocking. He puts his hands on her hips. His hands are huge—there’s so much of her he can touch so easily. She doesn’t think that’s fair. Sweeney inhales quickly when her hands go to his shoulders and start to push his shirt off. His hands are back on her the second his shirt falls past his wrists. This time, his hands drag up and under the hem of her dress, hot and branding against the length of her thighs.

Sweeney swallows audibly. They share a sharp look of recognition. They've been here before. This is even more immediate than then—she’s not sure if that’s due to the distance of memory or whatever astral plane voodoo shit the Baron and Brigitte had pulled on them, but this almost feels like too much. Her dead body registers each touch and scrape of his hands on her skin. His hand moves to palm her ass. 

“Y’know, like this you almost feel alive.”

Laura leans in closer. She can feel his heart beating in his chest against her own emptiness. 

“Shut up,” she says, but it’s low and as near to gentle as Laura ever travels. He squeezes her ass and she shifts against him.

She thinks there is an unspoken appreciation here between them. Much like the first time, there is someone obvious to blame here. They’re not doing this because they want to. It’s the plausible deniability she’s always liked. This isn’t her fault. It can't be her fault. She has nothing to do with this. This has nothing to do with him. With wanting him, wanting his cock inside of her, wanting his body and his warmth. She was probably always going to do this with him again anyway. 

She takes her dress off to stop herself from overthinking, analyzing, what her body, dead as it is, wants. He yanks his undershirt overhead, his suspenders falling down along his hips. He reaches for her and his hands span her breasts, her nipples hard against the heat of him. 

“Get me wet,” she whispers in his ear, and he makes a sound, a mix between a gasp and a grunt, all surprise. She watches him slip two of his fingers into his mouth, his eyes dark and fixed on her. He gets his spit-wet fingers between her legs and her hips jerk into him. 

“Should I be insulted?” 

“No, stupid. I’m fucking dead.”

He sinks a finger into her easily. “Cunt still works.” He smiles meanly and he doesn’t keep any of the goading edge out of his voice. She wants to snarl, say something cutting and mean, but this feels as good as it had felt in New Orleans and she’s afraid if she opens her mouth she’ll admit that to him. She's even more afraid he might stop. 

“OMG, are you two going to do it, or what?”

Laura rolls her eyes, but she reaches for Sweeney’s cock all the same. He exhales noisily. He’s thicker than she remembers, hot and pulsing in her hand. She squirms in his lap, suddenly stupidly desperate to have him inside of her. That’s really not fair either.

“Are you sure?” he asks, as if his dick isn’t already wet with pre-come. Of all times for him to try the gentlemanly act on for size. The head of his cock bumps against her cunt as she shifts her balance and then drags over her clit. She shivers.

“Shut up and fuck me,” and if that sounds like begging, she thinks, then that’s just his interpretation. 

He’s huge. He makes her ache as he pushes into her, a burning, punishing stretch she thinks she more than deserves—she wants it. If he was anyone else and they were anywhere else, she thinks she’d be whimpering as he pushes in deeper, inch by merciless inch. Her fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders and he makes a noise behind his teeth. 

He starts to thrust up into her, the movement small, the two of them balanced on this flimsy chair, and the start of a moan escapes her mouth. Her legs are draped wide over his lap and she has no leverage as he moves under her and inside her. There’s not enough room on the chair for her to brace her knees to ride him the way she (unfortunately) wants to ride him (it sucks so fucking much how much she wants this; it might be the worst thing to ever happen to her, and she’s already died, so that’s really saying something), so she lets him fuck her, her own hips grinding down into his lap.

“Hi, like, have you ever even watched porn? This angle sucks, man.”

It’s hardly a surprise when New Media instructs Laura to turn around, stage managing this like it’s an actual porno (which, Laura supposes, it kinda sorta is). 

Laura finds her back flush with Sweeney’s chest, hot and sweaty against her own cool skin, and that’s good, too. Her legs are spread over his ridiculously thick thighs, and she makes the mistake of glancing down, watching as he fits his cock inside of her again. It’s fucking obscene, watching her cunt stretch around him, and she can’t help but clench down on him. His hips rock near immediately up into her and she clenches again. There’s none of that unexpected tenderness they shared back in New Orleans. It’s rough—physical and vital and every part of her feels like it’s buzzing. He wraps his arm tight around her waist and it's the only thing keeping her upright. She can’t decide if this is better or worse—not having to look at him as he fucks her.

He slips his free hand down between her legs and his fingers bump over her clit, not enough friction to give her anything but frustration (and isn’t that the thesis statement of her relationship with Mad fucking Sweeney). Her back arches when she feels his blunt fingertips trace where she is stretched around his cock. The back of her head drops down onto his shoulder and she digs her fingers into his thigh. He’s rubbing at her now, right where she wants him, and she’s going to come. She hopes she didn’t say that out loud. She hopes they are putting on as good—and as distracting—a show as it feels to her. 

When she does come, her hand grabs at his forearm, too thick for her to fit completely around, her nails threatening to break the skin. He stills inside of her, and she can feel his mouth at her temple, panting. She turns her face into the side of his neck and she gasps, unnecessarily. 

“Now,” she hisses. "Go." There’s the barest stutter of surprise before Sweeney launches her off his lap.

She takes down the first henchman easily, breaking his neck with hardly any effort. She can hear Sweeney behind her, and she whirls around to take on the third henchman just as he raises his weapon in Sweeney’s direction. 

“Should’ve hired yourself a better crew,” Laura says, after. Amidst the very messy remains of New Media’s gang. 

New Media gives her the middle finger as she fades back into the old television set, accompanied by a tinkle of bright laughter. 

They’re alone now, the three dead henchman sprawled on the already dirty motel room carpet. 

“What am I supposed to do with this then?” Sweeney asks, bloodied and out of breath. Laura looks over at him. Fascinatingly (impressively? like she’d ever give him the credit), his cock is still hard. 

Laura glares at him, but it’s a different kind of heat. It matches the look on his own face. Challenging, knowing. Appreciative and expectant. 

So she gets down on her knees. She grins up at him. 

 

 


End file.
